


Dealing with Excess Anima

by Buntheridon



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Anima Sucking, Asphyxiation, Champion of Azeroth, Cinematic-Typical Choking, Clueless Hero, Don't Try This At Home, F/M, Fingering, Levelling storyline, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, PWP, Pain, Revendreth, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut, Submission, World of Warcraft: Shadowlands, ambiguous descriptions of genitals, exsanguination as therapy, hatelust, humor kinda, so it's f/m but not necessarily has to be, taking liberties in anima lore, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27998643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buntheridon/pseuds/Buntheridon
Summary: You’ve just arrived in Revendreth for the first time to meet Sire Denathrius after a detour involving flying carriages and rebel forces and suchlike. Your job is to get some anima for the withering Shadowlands areas but you end up losing some of your own.
Relationships: Sire Denathrius/Reader
Comments: 61
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a couple more chapters. The Sire keeps inspiring me ;P

You hate Sire Denathrius the moment you lay your eyes upon his high haughtiness giving a pretentious speech on the steps of the Grand Palisade of his castle. He seems a tyrant and an untrustworthy schemer. You bet your epic pants he knows more about this anima shortage than the other leaders, and that’s not to give praise to his spies. 

There’s something peculiarly familiar about him though, something you can almost put your finger on but not quite.

It’s weird for a ruler of a torture realm that’s designed for humbling souls through shame and fear to sweet-talk nonsense about his respectable goals like he needed everyone’s votes. Maybe the facade makes handling the venthyr easier, although he doesn’t strike as someone who’d say no to violent crushing of opponents.

_”I fear further sacrifices must be made if Revendreth is to survive this crisis.”_

A cub can see through his lies. But what’s behind them?

You wait for him to finish the theatrics and try to figure out what it is that seems so familiar in his appearance. He has dark horns growing from his forehead like the draenei or, a more likely connection in his case, demons, and he obviously has hooves hidden in the expensive-looking red and golden footwear. His ears are elven or trollish. Silk and fur and unknown luxurious fabrics hug his tall, imposing figure. He’s huge, towering over anyone almost twice their height. His long silver-white hair falls on his half-bared chest like cascading silk, his red eyes burn with cunning and veiled malice under dark brows, and you can just _feel_ power and anima oozing off him. A top tier asshole if ever you saw one – in other words, perfectly your type. _Fuck._

The Lord Chamberlain introduces you like the fawning bootlicker he is, but you decide not to bow. As the Revendreth sovereign walks down the steps a knot starts forming in the pit of your stomach, wringing ever tighter as he approaches. His voice makes your toes curl and your thighs slick under your robe.

”Maw Walker,” he drawls, feigning politeness, ”I am aware of your urgent request for anima. Under normal circumstances, I would of course oblige.”

Does someone here actually believe him, or are they all under his thumb?

When you greet his most important courtiers, one of them, the Fearstalker, comments on the scent of your soul, lustfully eyeing you up and down. You see thin threads of anima seep from her intricate corset like her heart was burning. You doubt she has one, metaphorical or otherwise. The huge Sire lets out a soft chuckle in agreement behind you, and you fear they can somehow detect the wholly inappropriate craving growing in you. You tell yourself that they are long dead, probably forgotten the matters of the flesh.

Swollen, throbbing, juicy flesh.

The Fearstalker hums, watching as you turn towards the next noble, and you hear her whisper: ”Have you ever been _truly_ _humbled?”_

You suppress a shiver, but another one slams through you hearing the changed tone in Sire Denathrius’ deep, velvety voice. He calls you by your name and beckons you back to him with a light gesture, thoroughly accustomed to everyone obeying him like mindless parts of a machine. Except cogs and wheels probably don’t experience such fear of being crushed. He sounds amused. You want to run. Or stab.

”Before I release you to assist the Lord Chamberlain with his little problem, there’s a small matter of protocol I need to discuss with you in private, Maw Walker. Come.” You cannot but follow, heart pounding madly.

He leads you to the throne room, gloomy and covered in red velvet and heaps of dribbled candles. With a nonchalant flick of his wrist he dismisses everyone from the room.

His courtesy drops off as soon as the last servant scuttles out the door leaving you two alone. He sits on the massive throne, spreads his thick, strong thighs in a manner that spells sovereignty and condescension, aaand hints that he might not be entirely indifferent towards carnality after all. His stare bores straight into your soul, or so it feels. You don’t know whether you should say something or just wait, and this sort of power play annoys the heck out of you. Gritting your teeth you silently count numbers backwards in Thalassian, trying to relax your overeager weapon hand. Finally Denathrius speaks, and you can see he enjoys your small-scale torment. Figures.

”Very peculiar. It must be because you are alive… I can smell all sorts of things off you, your anger and hate, for example, and ohh, your _arrogance._ That alone would earn you decades of whipping.” 

His taloned fingers tap slowly on the armrest, contemplating, counting seconds that don’t apply here in the Shadowlands. Your eyes catch the black nails and you wonder, again, about the possible demonic connection.

”So, are we talking about my sins now? I thought only the dead were punished here.” Your throat is dry and your insides lurch thinking about him executing the penance on you. Your wrists and ankles shackled. Him with a silk cord whip, circling around you, letting the dread intensify slowly. And wearing much less than now. _What the– where did that vision come from?_

Denathrius laughs softly and the sound travels all the way down your spine and between your thighs.

”Oh no, you misunderstand. You are my guest and hopefully will become an ally in these uncertain times. I do need to correct your notion, we prefer to call it... _education,_ what we do here. Fear and pain are merely tools for drawing out the repentance that is needed for the betterment of the most… difficult individuals. It is, after all, their last chance before the eternal torments of the Maw. It is our duty to do our worst.” He leans forward and watches you keenly. Oh, how you ache to smash a spiky iron hammer on that smug face.

”What intrigues me in you, mortal, is something we don’t consider a sin... That lust which seems to swell the longer you stand before me. It’s been a long, long time since anyone reacted that way to my might.”

You almost cry out in indignation and rage, but something he does, be it magic or just his cursed _might_ in this realm, shuts your mouth. He continues his friendly, harmless, completely lovable chat.

“We have a serious drought here… but it clearly doesn’t affect you in the slightest. On the contrary–” and he casts his glowing eyes down your figure, “the anima and life in you is positively _bursting,_ Maw Walker.”

Of course the silencing spell fails when a mortifyingly needy whimper leaps like an alarmed frog past your lips at the jolt of arousal piercing your core. Something has changed in him too and your body can detect it. He is _thirsty._

“As I said, desire isn’t a sin in itself,” he chatters on, leaning back on the throne in an exaggeratingly relaxed manner. His words are like small caresses moving ever closer to the heat in you. “But if excess, and unsatisfied for too long, it can lead one into dark moods and bitterness that in turn open a way to sin.”

 _He’s going to say it,_ your libido rejoices. You tremble in fear, anger and want. Sire Denathrius reaches his huge hand towards you, inviting, gracious. Almost as if it were a purely selfless act on his part.

“Let me help you with that.”

You _try_ to keep your dignity while your feet start taking the first steps up the throne platform without your full consent. His smile widens into a gleeful grin watching you struggle and lose. 

“Pardon me, sire, but I don’t believe that’s necess–”

“Ssh. As a token of our liaison I shall ease your suffering – in a way I believe suits the proclivities of your mortal body. You should know I don’t usually partake so… personally, we have efficient methods for storing and distributing anima without the –” he gestures like shooing off an insect, “messy bodily contact.”

 _Oh for fuck’s sake, you conceited smooth-voiced son of an ogre, I’m not suffering,_ you lie to yourself inwardly since your voice has fled elsewhere again. He’s utterly loathsome, so full of himself no wonder that shirt can’t stay closed. But why, then, are you drooling? Torn with contradicting emotions and reasons you reach his seat. You’ve heard of hatelust, but this is something without earthly comparison. Your jaw aches for grimacing in distaste, yet your loins pulsate with a cosmic level need. _What the Helheim is this?_

He casts a short spell and you start floating upwards, your robe hems curling up your legs like lifted by unseen hands.

“Some of the venthyr enjoy such carnal frivolities. The Countess has even found a clever way of embedding some lechery into her penitence routines… And the Fearstalker loves to dominate her prey so much I sometimes suspect it brings her pleasure other than duty well done. Hmm, did I say prey? I meant guests, of course. Clients, even.”

When he inhales it paralyzes your lungs for a second, two – and then you give in. Every particle of your being, soul, spirit and flesh alike, feels like it’s being rubbed clean. With a spiked brush. Thin red ghostly ribbons start to flow from your body towards his chest, forming a weaved bridge between you and your torturer. You cry out, raw agony shredding you apart. Your erect nipples push against the coarse fabric of your tunic, every hair on your body stands on end.

Torturer? You meant benefactor, of course.

“Mmmm... You taste of violence, resentment… Ohh, do I spy a whiff of shame, Maw Walker? Just let it all out, don’t be shy now.”

 _What a perfectly killworthy bastard,_ you curse, penetrated by pain and painful arousal. You test the strength of his magic and try to rip yourself away, flailing in the air, groaning. Yeah, nope, he’s got you alright. He laughs below you, exposing his sharp fangs, entertained by the conflict within you.

“Ungh – you know, your protests are making your anima even tastier. All that delicious pride...” He licks his lips, and the sight of his tongue serves you a rare cocktail of dread and lust. He seems to detect that and the levitation spell changes.

You land on his upturned face crotch first, the magic keeping you afloat like you were hanging on ropes. His nails scrape your skin when he spreads your thighs and easily rips off your soaked underpants. A short wail escapes your throat but you cut it midway, still trying to maintain some decorum.

“I’ll suck that pride right off you, mortal. You will feel so much better without it burdening you.” While your anima seeps out from your barely resisting soul you feel his tongue lap slowly across your swollen sex, making you moan deep. There’s nothing to do but grab his horns for purchase and try to survive. He encloses your heat in his mouth and soon the pleasure quashes the pain of exsanguination. He’s clearly not a stranger to carnal delights – and even if he were it wouldn’t matter, in the state you are in you’d get off humping a dead tree. 

You wantonly grind yourself against his face and his quiet laughter rumbles on your flesh like the most luxurious goblin-made vibrator. He hooks his fingers behind your knees and pushes his tongue inside you. By the Light, it’s thick and long like a cock, him being a giant compared to you. You groan, deliriously delighted. The stretch, the slithery warm wetness, his skillful thrusts rush you towards the impending climax. Denathrius gorges you like a succulent snack, anima and bodily fluids and all your sins.

”Fuck, yes, yes–”

 _Is it possible to die in the Shadowlands?_ You wonder, as the sensations overwhelm you and you start pulsating against the monstrous tongue. There’s nothing but the burning, brilliant bliss expanding from your core to every extreme. The world slips away.

 _“Exquisite,”_ you hear the harvester of your pride whisper lips against your flesh, and you know he has thoroughly humbled you.

You come to a moment later, knelt on the floor in front of his throne. Sire Denathrius wipes his mouth on his sleeve, visibly satisfied. The red in his eyes is flaming, replenished by your vibrant anima. Your anger and frustration are gone, your bloodlust thinned down to a memory of a tiny annoyance. You stand up, feeling sore and beaten, but also as light as a feather. Denathrius straightens his crown and smoothes down his glossy hair that you had messed up riding his face, and then glances at you dismissively.

“I’m convinced you will serve us well, Maw Walker. You are free to go now.”

You can’t think of anything to say, head purified from your usual sassy remarks. Whether it’s because of the absence of bad anima, or your pent-up desire having been satiated so very exhaustively, you aren’t sure. Probably both. Bowing quickly, you leave the castle and walk out the courtyard, towards the Lord Chamberlain’s tasks like a well-oiled little cog in the machine.

And then it hits you.

Dreadlords. _Nathrezim._


	2. Chapter 2

The evidence backing your doubts about Denathrius playing a dirty game just keeps accumulating. It’s hard to tell at once from the usual venthyr culture of anima sucking, backstabbing and power struggles which they all seem to respect, even in their rivals.

Lord Chamberlain’s _little task_ was to defeat the Harvester of Pride on her own castle grounds, which required lots of preliminary work the previous day, a proper graveyard shift. This morning you got her caged after a long battle and some trickery.

The harvesters are terribly strong, like the most eminent officers of the Legion, flying around without wings and sucking dry the souls of whoever they decide in an instant. But if you find their sinstone and read their living name, that can, in some cases, shatter their power.

The Accuser spoke in such conviction about the Master being corrupt that you feel awkward, almost _wrong_ to help defeat her. But a job’s a job, like that cute Kul Tiran used to say, and if you need to infiltrate some group in Revendreth in any case, might as well be the ruling one. You can decide later whether to become a double agent and try to deceive one of the most powerful beings you’ve ever met.

Or done.

In all honesty it was he who did you, though. _By the Light,_ you’ve never felt more inclined to humble yourself and atone for your perceived sins – which haven’t bothered you much before – than in his despotic presence. Revendreth works like a charm.

A stoneborn creature flies you and the Accuser’s cage high above the eerie yet magnificent castles and ruins of the land of last chances. Your heart beats faster the closer you get to the ledge where Sire Denathrius awaits you. 

What if you just happened to slip down and sort of disappear…?

”Take me to the Master, but do not trust him,” the Accuser says just before you land.

Denathrius looks smug and pleased having had his will executed as always. With a calm voice he accuses the Accuser, who accuses him back.

“I gave you a simple task, yet you chose rebellion.”

“You ordered me to defile our ancient rituals. I will not do that, even for you.”

“A poor decision. You are hereby accused of defying the will of Revendreth.”

“And I accuse YOU, Denathrius, of failing in your charge. YOU are the one who defies the will of Revendreth.” Her voice is old and bears tremendous power, but not as much as is needed.

”Defy Revendreth? I AM Revendreth!” The Sire rumbles, and the earth beneath your boots shakes. Or is it just your knees? He is ridiculously conceited, yet you want to jump his bones right there and then. Your hunger cares not about details such as the fact that he’s a giant and you are barely big enough to _hug_ his cock.

After the game of accusations the tyrant of the venthyr orders the cage to be taken away, to await for a hunt, whatever that means. Everything else disappears from your mind as he turns his attention to you. His previously harsh voice melts into a praising caress that tickles you in all the right places (and a couple of wrong ones).

”Maw Walker. I see you have recovered your strength. You are indeed a resilient one.” He doesn’t elaborate but the slight pull on your anima – a new, terrifying feeling of losing bits of one’s innards one wasn’t even aware of – lets you know his desires.

_Oh no you won’t. I’m not your personal wine glass!_

”If that’s all for now, Sire, I’ll be heading back to Oribos to... learn some… enchanting.” Your resolve wavers under his piercing gaze even before you finish your feeble excuse. Someone gasps among the gathered venthyr, like you just said the filthiest thing about his mother. Is having your own plans for the week a treason?

”Of course you are. But first, do join me for… lunch, I’m _dying_ to know everything about your heroic fight against that disloyal vassal of mine.”

_Fuck no._

He looks at you like you were a snack and summons a carriage – through telepathy, apparently, because one just happens to roll beside him, driven by the sympathetic dredgers. You hear chuckling but also a couple of yearning sighs among the noble crowd. _What the Maw is that about then?_ You take a step backwards and bow, still trying to avoid the inevitable. Your whole being is a warzone, fear and pride and reason and terribly aching desire pulling you in different directions. You can’t just roll over and bare your jugular vein every time he has the munchies!

But he is Revendreth, and no-one defies that will.

Before you can utter another objection he tugs at your anima a little harder, just for a second. It’s enough to remind you of his otherworldly might – if he so decided, your heart would probably leap out of your chest and fly to his hands still beating, and that isn’t even a romantic metaphor. No-one would help, they would probably join the feasting if he allowed it.

It occurs to you that the venthyr can sense the turmoil in you. Is that what’s making them stare at you with such hunger? You glance around and see a dozen pairs of gleaming eyes following your predestined surrender like their favorite lewd theater play.

”Do not fear, little mortal. You are under my protection so long as you remain loyal to me. _They_ won’t dare touch you.” He speaks softly, only for your ears. The open carriage door awaits you like the steps to the gallows. ”Can you feel their thirst for your living soul? It’s quite delectable.” The unquestionable dominance in his voice makes you tremble. His red eyes glow with amused appetite, the kind that knows it won’t be left unsatisfied.

_But who will protect me from you, eh?_

Through the closing carriage door window you see him disappear in a sanguine cloud of anima magic. You are taken to a side door of Castle Nathria and left there, alone. How stupid of him, how sloppy. You can just fade in the shadows and be on your way, there’s no-one to stop you from doing whatever you want.

What an utter surprise it is, then, to find yourself entering through the door you were expected to. A dark, winding corridor leads to another door that opens in your shaking hands into… Sire Denathrius’ bedroom.

His huge form, now devoid of the heavy jeweled armor pieces, is reclining languidly against a pile of pillows on a red divan as if he needed sleep or soft materials to rest on. Do dreadlords sleep? Do gods sleep? What _is_ he?

”You… asshole,” you manage through your teeth. He’s making a mockery of mortal customs, the absurdity of any choreographed seduction scene revealed when performed by a hulking demon lord. There are even red flower petals thrown across the floor, Light be damned. Despite your eye-rolling, it still does the trick perfectly: you can’t but stare. He is covered in thin purple silkweave that’s not really covering anything, every shape and size of his powerful muscles and limbs are yours to gawk at. Even in its half resting state his member is intimidatingly monstrous. His title is truly fitting, though you have a hunch _that_ wasn’t the way he created his underlings.

”Tut, tut. It won’t hurt that much. I will let you ride me.”

”That is… quite impossible.”

“You have committed sins for _my_ sake, and in my own domain no less. It is my sacred duty to cleanse that off you, lest you end up… back _here,_ when you die.” His theatrical virtue is glaringly fake but you accept the reasoning nevertheless. He doesn’t force you, just lounges there and lets your eyes feast on him. _How generous,_ the sane particle of your mind sneers at your carnally inclined majority. He looks like he’s enjoying himself, but being the one in control cannot be anything new to him. Could he really be craving for the good old profane admiration? That would be hilarious. Nah, he probably just enjoys toying with you in all the possible ways. Denathrius closes his eyes and inhales deep.

”Mmm, your cup is filling so swiftly, Maw Walker. I drained a considerable amount of you yesterday, yet you are positively overflowing already.”

Did he just call you naughty? ”Are you… talking about anima or my…” you gesture vaguely around and towards yourself, “...emotions?” _Again with the tableware metaphors. I am not a mug, for fuck’s sake._

”In your case they are quite the same, my friend.” Nonchalantly, his huge hand brushes over his now gloriously erect cock under the light fabric, adjusting it against his abs like offering you a seat. By the campfire. Because that’s a log. Arousal slams you right in the gut making you whimper helplessly. The complacency on his face does corroborate with your silly notion about his assumed need for attention and you might even register that if you weren’t so utterly gone with the lust.

“Come, mortal. I will be gentle.”

You find yourself astride him, red ribbons of anima magic floating around you, dissipating like smoke. Was it him or you who cast the relocation spell? You will probably never know, nor do you care, for the throbbing of your heat is only glad it has happened. Instinctively you align your hips so the ridge presses on you just right. You are nearly panting, the fast beat of your heart, the dizzying thrill making you delirious. Sire Denathrius chuckles and it makes you rock about like on a dire wolf’s back. You press your palms against his half exposed, hairless chest for balance. He’s warm, almost hot to the touch. Curious.

“Oh, that bursting vitality of yours,” he murmurs and wraps a hand around your waist, grounding you, holding you captive. The tips of his dark claws nearly touch on your other side and you feel like a doll. His thumb settles on your sternum and that frightening pull on your anima begins anew. It stings, it bites at your soul particles like a high-pitched headache but everywhere in your body. You try not to yell, sinking your nails into his muscles, shuddering in pain. Denathrius hums deep like a satisfied sabercat and inhales bits of your evil deeds as lunch. Everything goes blood red.

”Nngh… You have no idea how desired your anima is, Maw Walker. You adventure out there, innocently meeting people and visiting places, making the good citizens of Revendreth who cross your path mad with lust. Me, I can get my fill of the usual anima anytime, but this–” and now the pain intensifies, draining you of thoughts, reason and pride, ”this is a rare treat.” 

You cry out. _”You – said – gentle…!”_

”Oh, did I? I must have lied.”

Your sins pour out of you, fresh and old alike, awakening a feeling of guilt even though you have done what a hero must and defended your people with good cause. The injuries you caused, the enemy children you orphaned, the lives you took years ago and today – all have left a mark on you. Sweat trickles down your back, your temples, and you curse and swear and wail, clawing at his skin. After letting you bathe in guilt for a moment the Master drinks that away too, leaving you in sore, blissful emptiness. Through your haze his voice sounds like coming from an underground tomb.

“You endured valiantly, my little sinner.”

He nudges his hips up, offering you the remedy for the ache. Despite the echo of the pain – or maybe because of it – you are leaking through your underwear, messy and swollen, and the bump against your crotch reminds you of the pleasures available. Ohh, if only you were closer to his stature you’d have that beast inside you _yesterday._ You brave the stare of his glowing eyes, that seem brighter after the feeding, because you have no shame left if you ever had any – he just sucked that right off you as well, didn’t he? You grip the lapels of his ridiculously low neckline around where his belly button would be were he human, and grind yourself against his giant shaft to a shattering completion that was just a thought away. There’s a smirk on his lips, a pleasure taken from the anima – or perhaps from being worshipped as a mere object of carnal desire. Or so you wish, because that might keep you alive in his realm for longer.

Or maybe that would just be _so damn sweet._

You are placed on the floor like a vase and that’s just about enough of those similes, thank you very much. Sire Denathrius pretends to tidy his excuse of a suit and stands up, flower petals crushing under his feet. You notice he does have boots on, wouldn’t want to reveal those hooves to the world just yet, eh?

“As pleasant as this little diversion has been, we both have a lot of work to do. You have a big hunt ahead of you tomorrow, Maw Walker. I suggest you rest and gather your strength for that. The Fearstalker is very demanding.”

He’s gone in a puff and you wobble outside the same way you entered. There are no private carriages waiting. What an ass. Sleepily, you catch a route one towards Darkhaven and then – another realization dawns on you. He said he can get anima anytime, did he not – even during this ’drought’?!

You swear he is lowering your intellect on purpose somehow. Must be a curse of some sort. Possibly an undetected poison in the air. Nothing to do with this weird and dangerous attraction whatsoever, nope.

Next time you will be more determined. Definitely.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here he is, damn it: 
> 
> https://www.deviantart.com/buntheridon/art/Sire-Denathrius-Lunch-866507279

The purpose and execution of the “penitent hunt” has left you somewhat stunned. It has already become clear that there are several ways of extracting submission, humility or other forms of surrender from the _clientele,_ but to openly scare the shit out of them by exposing them to a traumatizing chase through the woods of afterlife is nearing your undercover tolerance limits. Is this truly the way of Revendreth, or is it the way of the corrupt nobility with too much power and no-one to check on them?

Either way, you need to keep your cool and appear a hardworking inquisitor.

The Fearstalker is flirting with you again, or at least that’s how you interpret her insinuations. Since you are a ”treasured ally” as well as the only one alive around here, her remarks about wanting to see how a cage would suit you or the benefits of whipping the anima out of you cannot be understood as soul improvement tips.

It’s a relief once the dreadful – literally – hunt starts, and you have a task to concentrate on. Running through the dusky woods after the arrogant and prideful souls, the Fearstalker never too far from you, is unnerving, but at least she doesn’t have much time to talk. Except when she’s instructing you in soul leeching.

”Maw Walker, look closely. Paralyze a soul with fear, and their anima flows freely.” Her voice drips gleeful delight and you see a portion of the red threads flow into her chest. Mimicking what she did with the next victim surprises you with how thrilling it is to have such power over someone – no wonder the venthyr are all so damn smug. The electrifying energy of someone else’s anima makes you purr. Oops.

”Please, no more,” the humbled soul begs, and the Fearstalker sends it to the Halls of Atonement.

Turns out the Accuser is very good at enduring terror, running and hiding. Feverishly you try to figure out a way to get to talk to her before she’s caught. You run through the dark forests and misty glades until the Fearstalker senses her.

”She is at the Decrepit Depository. Come.” Before you reach the ruins, something big, angular and heavy drops on her, and she disappears. The Accuser steps forth from behind a pillar, graceful and proud, her spotless ball-gown hems swooshing in the breeze of the perpetual night. The elegance. The touch of drama. You’d give her a thumbs up if it wouldn’t cheapen the moment.

”Maw Walker. I’ve sent her away, but she will be back soon. Listen, Denathrius is not to be trusted. He has made you his pawn with his sweet talking.”

 _Oh, has he ever,_ you almost sigh out loud and bite your lip in embarrassment. Now’s not the time to think about his honeyed tongue. The Accuser probably senses your conflict, the fascination and the doubt warring in you.

“I’ve had my suspicions from the day I arrived, but I thought it better to play along rather than openly rebel before I know more,” you explain, following her into the run-down building.

”That might have worked for you, but it got me imprisoned and hampered our plans somewhat. Denathrius has blinded you, but I will open your eyes to the truth. You will see which side you have been fighting for!” She casts a complicated spell around a tall mirror until it starts glowing deep red around the frames revealing a portal of some sort. The Accuser steps through and after a moment’s hesitation you jump after her.

You pop out of a similar mirror deep inside Castle Nathria, on a wide ledge overlooking a huge hall with enormous stone pillars and arches. Endless rows of containers bursting with anima are hanging from the ceiling. There’s nowhere to hide so you stay immobile like a stoneborn gargoyle when you hear metallic clicking footsteps from below. A voice, _the voice_ that makes your knees weak and your pulse elevated, is saying something. Another voice answers.

”As I explained before, Sire, we cannot rush such a delicate process. Anima harvesting demands finesse.”

Sire Denathrius in his villainous glory walks slowly beside a lithe venthyr lady who is dressed like an assassin. You feel a pang of jealousy and curse yourself so emphatically you fear it might be heard outside your head. The Accuser glances at you questioningly and you shrug, resigned to be the ridiculously emotional mortal around here.

”Our friend grows... impatient,” the Sire explains patiently like to a child, “Recent events require us to expedite our efforts. See it done, Inerva.” To your horror (but also delight) he halts, inhales like a hound dog, and turns his head right towards you. When his eyes meet yours a wide grin spreads on his face, full of malice and mirth, but also that disconcertingly arousing appetite.

”Well, well. What have we here? You really must be more vigilant about uninvited guests, my lady.”

”Sire?”

You want to tear that slow-witted _lady_ into shreds. Who does she think she is to him? And what the Maw is this annoyed feeling? Denathrius laughs theatrically. A red sword appears out of thin air at his side and plunges with murderous speed between you and the Harvester of Pride, barely missing your cheek, shattering the magic mirror behind you. There’s no way out now.

”My defiant Accuser and her hapless mortal pawn. It is impressive that you discovered our little secret… if a tad inconvenient.”

The Accuser demands to know why Denathrius has caused the drought deliberately and starved his own people, but the bugger dodges everything with his political chatter. ”The other realms would squander our most precious resource. That won’t do. Rest assured, this anima will serve a higher purpose. But I fear you will not survive to witness the glory to come.”

You would very much like to witness that. The glorious coming. Wasn’t that what he said?

”I will deal with them, Sire… harshly,” Lady Darkvein offers, taking responsibility for the lack of security in a castle that’s not hers.

”Of course you will,” her boss states with indifference, his concentration on you now. Vast amounts of stolen anima around him, yet he thirsts for yours particularly? That sends a chill down your spine.

The assassin calls for the guards and the Accuser beside you yells something about needing time to mend the escape mirror. You nod, but your turncoat eyes are locked on the huge Sire’s formidable form for entirely different reasons than getting ready to fight him off. He contemplates a moment, then comes to a decision. A violent yank of scarlet magic rips you from where you stand, hurtling you towards the eater of your sins. You draw your weapon and ready your spells, happily accepting the titillating knowledge that you have no chance whatsoever against him, be it fighting or resisting his cruel charms.

The levitating venthyr ladies yell at each other and engage in a fierce duel while the Sire’s tight grip closes around you. Your every cell and soul fragment is morphed into anima dust in a burst of teleportation magic, and it painfully reminds you that should he wish to, he could bleed you dry in an instant. Never mind your unusual vital status. 

You reappear in a smaller, more intimate room. He slams you against the wall with one hand over your midsection. It’s useless, but you struggle nonetheless, kicking him in the wrist like a perfect dumbass. He brings his majestic nose close to your face and hisses in a low, sharp tone. ”I have extended every courtesy to you and let you roam my realm freely, yet you decide to fraternize with the rebel scum?”

”I wanted... to hear all sides of the story…” His nostrils flare and you’re not sure if it’s a gesture of disapproval or if he’s sniffing you again. The knowledge that he can smell your arousal is both mortifying and exciting, and if he didn’t sense it before, he definitely will now. A grin tugs at his lip.

“Mmm. You need to be punished for your naughty, naughty curiosity, mortal. No-one gets away with such heresy.”

_But you need me alive, don’t you?_

The flying sword returns to its Master’s side through a wall. Denathrius glances at it and smirks.

“Remornia here is my very ...dedicated companion. Should I let her do as she wishes with you?”

”Yes, yes, please Master!” the animated sword yells with malicious excitement. ”That _thing_ is not worth your attention! I will cut it into a dozen bits!”

That makes you lose your temper despite your delicate position. ”Who are you calling a thing, you talking piece of cutlery?”

”Tsk, tsk, such animosity. You are not here for petty squabbles, I don’t think. Remornia, be a good girl and help me trim this fingernail.” He lifts his free hand elegantly like the flamboyant snob he is. The sword obeys but seems to be seething with some emotion or other.

”Now, my little traitorous spy. You smell like you want something thrust in you, nonetheless. Not a sword, then? Such a small, fragile thing you are, any weapon would cut you in half.” He’s holding you off the ground, your back on the wall, your feet dangling uselessly in the air.

When he presents the index finger, now with a short, manicured nail, your breath hitches.

“Be glad that I am a forgiving and lenient ruler, willing to give you one more chance to prove yourself to me.” Your anima starts drifting towards the Sire with that familiar whole-body agony, the fear and the lust facilitating its flow. You grit your teeth and stare at the thick finger in front of you. It’s a suggestion.

”It’s… too big… I don’t think…” You must be becoming accustomed to the pain, for that was nearly a coherent sentence.

”Oh, I guess I _could_ loosen up your inner muscles with a spell if you ask nicely.”

 _Oh, fuck no,_ there’s a limit to the depths of humiliation you are willing to lower yourself, and a relaxant spell definitely is–

_“Please.”_

He points the finger towards you, and you feel how your hips, your crotch and even your thigh muscles soften, relax, start feeling this wonderful tingling warmth in them amidst the pain. Your sex pulsates in anticipation, and you want your sticky underwear off _now._ He watches you, red eyes flaming under those hooded eyelids like a living volcano, delighted by the taste of your anima.

“Please _what?”_

Trembling, you humble yourself further. “Please... I want it ...inside me… Sire.”

He nods, smug as fuck. Slowly he licks the finger thoroughly wet.

“Master! Why are you being so _nice_ to the stupid mortal?!”

“Don’t interrupt my feeding, Remornia,” he says coldly without turning. Exasperated, the sword floats off somewhere. Denathrius delves under your robes, rips yet another pair of your undies, and finds you hot and yielding. Surprisingly gently for a vindictive monster despot he rubs the fingertip against your entrance, and you gasp, grabbing hold of the hand keeping you in place. It cannot possibly fit, it just can’t. Watching you, leeching the flow of sins off you, he pushes the enormous finger in. For a moment you are sure you’ll die here today, but then your flesh, just like you, surrenders and the digit glides in like the most enormous cock ever to breach you. You stare blindly at nothingness, your fingernails digging into his hand, the pain and pressure making you gulp for air.

”Joining the rebels would be such a bad choice, Maw Walker. You know full well I am the winning side.” His voice is low and pleasant, and he fills you completely, holding the finger there for a moment, letting you adjust to it. You are panting, trying to soothe yourself. Then he withdraws halfway and pushes back in like creating dramatic punctuation for his speech.

“I will let you consider again, for I am gracious like that. Let us agree that your curiosity was a mistake that you need penance for. I know how fickle you living beings can be, tossed about by your emotions and needs.”

He thrusts deep again, and the sudden pleasure catches you by surprise – maybe he ceased sucking your anima, maybe he cast another spell, maybe your muscles got used to the stretch already – it’s ecstatic and raw and wonderful, the pain accentuating the bliss. You moan and babble incoherently, abandoning your pride for the one who is drinking it all off your soul in any case.

”Yes, yes…!”

“To be so easily betrayed by your own body, how do you even manage to survive in life as long as you do?” He’s sliding in and out effortlessly now, the quivering grip of your flesh around his penetrating finger tight but pliant. It aches, but oh, in such a good way. You are dripping and throbbing and almost scared of reaching the approaching peak, for it feels it would absolutely _wreck_ you.

“Oh–fuck–youuuuff–!” You bite into the side of the hand holding you, trying to muffle the rhythmic little noises dropping from your mouth. It helps only marginally. He seems to sense the volume of your pleasure, for he bleeds your soul more intensely the higher you ascend in it, the agony and rapture entwined, forming a delicious cocktail of pain-delayed satisfaction. You start riding him, the small but more than sufficient part of him that is given to you, pushing against his thrusts in a mad frenzy.

“What is this? Ohh, I see. You would want me to take you like a mortal, fill your innards with my seed like the beasts in the woods, is that it?” he croons, and you yell, bursting into millions of hot white stars on a blood red sky of carnal pleasures, clenching against the shaft of his thick finger that is fucking you into oblivion.

”Mmm, fascinating.”

The Accuser finds you outside the Decrepit Depository, lying on the dead, grassless dirt. You can still feel your Master inside you.

”Maw Walker! You made it! We need to hurry, I can hear the Fearstalker approaching and she sounds enraged. How ever did you escape Denathrius’ claws?”

”He let me go. He just… wanted to play with me. Scare me, that is. I think he needs me alive, for whatever reason.”

”That must be it. Just be careful not to let his ... _attentions_ affect you too much. Hold tight now, I’m taking us to the nearest carriage stop.” You hug her waist as she flies you up in the skies. Below you the blood-curling promise of the Harvester of Dread echoes in the woods.

_”You will find no safety, pitiful mortal. We will scour the entirety of Revendreth if we have to!”_

This was definitely the last time you gave into your dangerous desires. Definitely.

If only you had the choice.


	4. Chapter 4

Having been booted out of the gang siding with Denathrius you have fully thrown yourself in with the rebels. There are more harvesters on your (their?) side now, and you recently managed to secure the rebellious Prince Renathal from a cage in the Maw.

The fancy fangs, as the adorable dredgers call their masters, surprise you on every turn with their elegant and aristocratic and, not unexpectedly, haughty ways. Renathal seems like a level-headed and a reasonable noble, who maintains his regal manners even while missing half his clothes. He went as far as to apologize for his state of undress – while having been held captive in a torture realm for who knows how long. How… refreshing.

The new rebel base at Sinfall feels homey compared to the vast Castle. You use this interval to relax after such a hectic campaign in other people’s afterlives. The rebels are preparing an assault against ~~your darling~~ Sire Denathrius and you are going to join them. Stealing Shadowlands’ collective anima cannot go unpunished.

Renathal, like nearly every venthyr, colors his language in double-entendres and sensual ways of expressing the simplest matter; you kind of love it, yet how are you supposed to interpret the way the Prince sighs reminiscing Denathrius’ beauty and smiling face in the olden days of balls, dances and good honest backstabbery? Does he miss being happily ignorant? Was it pleasurable to serve someone unquestionably sovereign? Oh, it must have been. Was he in love with the Master, or were they all? That might have been the way of Revendreth.

”He will know to expect us. Time is not on our side.”

You are thinking of orgies. They should have had some. They must have, it would suit their overall style. But do the venthyr even bang? Their physiology is somewhat unclear to you, even though the Sire did indulge you with a show of having a boner.

You suppress a lusty whimper and try to concentrate on what your new leader is saying instead of reminiscing sexy times. Renathal raises an eyebrow at you before continuing to explain the plan to attack the Castle. He looks gorgeous in green and gold, and he _is_ attractive, yet to get _your_ anima flowing a boss needs to have that certain oomph. It’s unclear even to you why a leader’s attributes should equal those of an evil lover, so you shrug off that track of thought as being influenced by all this insinuation and flirty politics around you.

”Maw Walker, step forth. We will transfer a portion of our powers to you, lest you perish too early in the battle we are about to engage.”

The Accuser, the Curator and the Prince channel into you anima so potent it elevates you off the floor. The same thrill and throbbing energy that you felt torturing the hunted soul fills you to the brim of your spirit. You feel your limbs, your torso grow painfully, and when the ritual is complete, you stand almost as tall as the harvesters.

“Use this new strength wisely, fellow doomed friend. Let us go.”

  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


Everything is ready for the assault. The venthyr repellent mirrors are set, waiting for the last one to be directed towards the Master’s loyalists on the castle grounds. Prince Renathal gives the last motivational speech to the harvesters, the venthyr and the stoneborn gathered around him.

“Let us meet death together and bring him low. Be prepared for a sustained assault, for once we reveal ourselves, there will be no stopping. Now, Maw Walker, direct the Focal Mirror at the gates of Castle Nathria. Let us descend upon our burning enemies with ferocity and swiftness of action.”

“The master of lies has to fall, or Revendreth will be lost,” the Accuser swears, and you turn the huge mirror around. When the distant screams have subsided you turn it back off and storm the castle yards in Prince Renathal’s wake. Your little but efficient group carves the way through the remaining enemies, approaching the heart of the castle grounds.

Over the ruckus of battle you hear the annoying shriek of Remornia, the Master’s (blood)lusty sword. If it were up to you she would be hilt deep in a rock sinking towards the bottom of the Forbidding Sea.

_“Ooo, look who’s coming! Can I butcher the Maw Walker this time? Pleeease?”_

Your step falters hearing Denathrius’ deliberately calm answer. He knows you can hear him and he doesn’t need otherworldly powers to choke you in want. His voice is enough to do that.

_”Restrain yourself, Remornia. This is Revendreth. We do not butcher, we… educate.”_

The Prince yells for you all to follow him, he has spotted the target. You start running along a long, wide bridge and in the distance looms the imposing figure of the nemesis.

_”My poor, poor Renathal. I had hoped he would be standing at my side to share this glorious moment.”_

_“I shall present his head to you as a trophy!”_ the sword screeches and darts towards the sky. As you run, stoneborn bats start picking your group members one by one and before you know it, before you reach the middle of the last stretch, only you and Renathal remain on your feet.

 _“Denathrius!”_ he yells in rage and charges ahead. You try to keep up, glancing about for more attackers and spot the homicidally jealous blade flying towards you at full speed from your flank. Throwing yourself flat on the ground you try to warn the Prince.

“Look out!”

Remornia hits Renathal in the back, teasingly cutting a shallow wound across him, then flies off and turns around for another dive. The Prince trudges on, gritting his teeth, trying to parry the attacks with his own animated sword. Denathrius, who’s been standing his back towards you like he couldn’t possibly care less, finally turns around and focuses his burning red eyes on his former protégé. Remornia swoops down, hitting Renathal’s sword arm. Again and again she slices his flesh under the condescending gaze of the Master until reaching him the Prince is all but broken. He drops on his knees and his sword falls from his weakened grip. You look in horror, desperation and very, very ashamed arousal how Sire Denathrius clearly revels in seeing such slow torture. Damn your tastes.

Remornia darts towards you but her Master raises a hand, ordering her to stop. “Down, girl. I shall take care of the rest myself.”

“But Master–!”

_“Heel.”_

Muttering in some unknown demonic tongue the weapon obeys and locates herself floating behind his back.

 _”This_ was your valiant last stand, Renathal?” The Sire doesn’t even bother to do anything to the fallen Prince in front of him.

Oh, no. It’s over. The rebellion has failed again. You try to shrink and disappear, but all your spells are exhausted right now. Denathrius turns his flaming attention on you, and he is not smiling.

”So, my little morsel. I warned you, did I not?” Before you can react he’s already in front of you. He grabs you by the throat and lifts you up to his eye level. You gag and flail and cling to his wrist trying not to suffocate to death. Without foreplay he inhales, opening the gates within you, and your anima gushes out like blood from a decapitated torso. It hurts, it rips your soul to shreds, and he loosens his grip only to let you scream. That brings a brief smile to his cruel face. It is ludicrous that even this cold, non-flirtatious and nonconsensual handling makes you pulsate in heat, and after a moment of agony you aren’t sure anymore whether the burn you are engulfed in is pain or bliss. Everything is red and throbbing.

”Mmm. I seem to have conditioned you flawlessly.” He brings your face close to his. Even with the venthyr magic having grown your body he’s still huge compared to you. “Why fight the inevitable? Why rebel against the one who could give you such power, such riches… such pleasure? You could have had it all, little mortal. _You – just – needed – to obey.”_ He emphasizes every word, carrying you by the neck, leaving your comrades lying where they fell. To your relief you see Renathal move – they might still survive.

“You will now witness the splendor of what is about to unfold. Every precious drop of anima, so painstakingly wrung from the tortured souls of the lesser beings, now paves the path for the Banished One to reclaim what was his.” He stops in the middle of another bridge.

”You really… trust that bald world-eater?” You croak, ”Unless he’s a dreadlo–” He squeezes your throat tighter again, cutting your words.

“Sshh. Do not speak. Observe.” Denathrius flicks his free hand and what you thought were mere statues around you click and move downwards in a mechanism of doom, releasing a crushing stream of anima below, a blood-red vortex the size of a world tree, that on its way to the Maw breaks off half the bridge the Master is standing on. He doesn’t flinch, you do that for the both of you.

And when you understand the meaning of what you’re seeing, your stomach drops with a dread for all the existence there is. The bastard is seriously donating all that sweet, sweet sinful essence to the Jailer. It’s not a surprise, really, to realize you feel a thirst towards it, very much like a venthyr. It’s humming in you like lust, your blood turned into an emotion, your own anima attempting to join the downward spiral of the world’s end. Denathrius tightens his grip around your throat, dispassionately like a scholar dissecting a biletoad, and that short moment of uncertainty makes you wonder whether your soul will keep any of your physical abilities in the afterlife. Then the air rushes back into your lungs as he decides against killing you. Your suffering and near-death seem to amuse him, like he’s living these crucial experiences through you, scrutinizing your every gasp closely. He sucks the last drops of anima that are available without endangering your life and drops you on the ground like an empty sack.

”I think I shall keep you as my personal nourishment. We will meet again when I so wish.”

You roll on your side, coughing and gasping and wheezing. You feel a feeble need to sass at him, but you’re limp and beaten, and there’s nothing in your head but accidentally erotic phrases anyway. Denathrius glances at the Prince and snorts with contempt.

“Remember this lesson.” He dissolves into a red cloud of magic like he never was there.

“What has he done?!” Renathal cries, and the harvesters, fortunately no more dead than they were before, try to soothe him. “How are you holding up, Maw Walker?”

“Oh, _fuck me._ If this goes on I will end up in _Bastion,_ being sucked so dry of all my sins,” you lament by way of apology for your weakness for the Sire. Renathal looks at you and through all his desperation a little spark of flirtatious empathy emerges.

“No need to be ashamed, mortal. I know how you feel. He is misguided and wrong, yet so terrifyingly charming, _ungh,_ that delicious cruelty and power... I nearly spilled my anima just watching him punish you.”

“What? Oh. Damn.”

“Let us retreat to Sinfall. I will write invitations to some important people. With any luck our cause might grow enough to defeat him.”

On your way back you ponder the feeling of relief that keeps replacing the disappointment you probably ought to feel now. Huh, that’s odd.


End file.
